Of Swans and Horses: The Tale of Eomer and Lothiriel
by lifesongs
Summary: "It is best to love first what you are fitted to love, I suppose: you must start somewhere and have some roots, and the soil of the Shire is deep. Still there are things deeper and higher; and not a gaffer could tend his garden in what he calls peace but for them, whether he knows about them or not." A story of love, yes-but of so much more than that as well.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I readily acknowledge that all places and characters in the story came from the genius mind of J.R.R. Tolkien and as such belong to the Tolkien estate. I mean no infringement whatsoever, and take no profit of any sort from my fanfiction. All other ideas in here are mine, and not to be copied without written permission, with one gigantically notable exception. The tale of the Swan-maiden of Dol Amroth is the work of the brilliant and extremely talented DrummerWench, taken (with permission) from her Fairy Tales of Middle-Earth—they're published on this site, so PLEASE check them out. They're beyond fantastic. (It's not meant to be a plug, it's a reference. Anyway, check them out.)

* * *

"…_At length they came to the Prince Imrahil, and Legolas looked at him and bowed low; for he saw that here indeed was one who had elven-blood in his veins. 'Hail, lord!' he said. 'It is long since the people of Nimrodel left the woodlands of Lórien, and yet still one may see that not all sailed from Amroth's haven west over water.'_

_ 'So it is said in the lore of my land,' said the Prince."_

_-The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King _

29 Cemië III 3016

Dol Amroth

The city of Dol Amroth sprawled just south of Edhellond, at the inlet of Cobras Haven in the Bay of Belfalas. Tirith Aear rose over the city, its spires and turrets nearly piercing the clouds, grey-white stone against a blue-grey sky. The palace itself was carved into the White Cliffs, hewed from the stone to brush the ocean with its base. The waves slipped into the arched tunnels and caves beneath the palace, brushing softly over the rich green moss clinging to the walls. Winding paths meandered down the slopes, leading to soft sand beaches backed by rolling dunes. The city itself was carved of white marble, native to Dor en Ernil, and glittered silver and white in the noon sun, while the beaches sparkled with bits of mica.

Down on the beach, two figures sprinted toward the waves, followed by four traveling at a more sedate pace. The two in front vied for the lead—one, a girl in a white linen shift, the other, a young man who could only be her brother.

"Run faster, Amrothos!" the girl called to him, hiking her skirts up until the hem brushed against her knees. The four behind them laughed softly, shaking their heads in amusement.

"It is a sad day indeed when your younger sister—your twelve-years-younger sister at that—can outrun you, little brother," the eldest of the four called. Amrothos—the runner—turned, glaring at his elder siblings and cousins.

"I blame you for that, Boromir," he retorted. "Every winter, when we come to Minas Tirith, you take Lothíriel off to train with the Citadel Guard every evening."

"Do I not also teach you, Amrothos?" Boromir asked, quirking up one eyebrow.

"Faramir trains with me," Amrothos replied. "And she always manages to convince me to teach her more whenever we come home."

"She uses that face on you, doesn't she?" Boromir asked, half-smiling. "The one with the sad eyes, and the pout, and the begging?"

"How did you know?" Amrothos asked, puzzled. Boromir grinned wryly.

"She used the same face on us, when she wanted to learn archery," he admitted. "And it worked."

"Will you come to the ocean already?" Lothíriel called, placing her hands on her hips. "The water is perfect for swimming, and you just stand there like a herd of deer."

The herd of deer in question turned to face her. On the face of the next eldest—Amrothos' and Lothíriel's eldest brother—a wicked smile began to spread.

"For that, little sister," Elphir replied, that hint of a smile chasing across his face, "I do believe you'll be the first to take a swim." Lothíriel's eyes widened.

"Elphir, don't you dare—" she started, beginning to back away. Before she could finish, Elphir had her arms pinned to her sides. She kicked furiously as he hoisted her over his shoulder. Behind them, Amrothos, Boromir, Faramir, and Erchirion watched, laughing, as Elphir tossed her from her perch into the ocean. She surfaced, spluttering, glaring at her brother.

"I am no deer, sister mine," he informed her, laughing.

"Indeed you are not, elder brother," Lothíriel retorted. "I believe you are more of a fish!" She grabbed his ankles, yanking him in as well. Safely on the shore, her brothers and cousins roared with laughter.

"And don't think you're safe, either," she said threateningly, her face drawn in mock anger. She struggled to her feet, fighting against the weight of her sopping wet dress, which clung to her petite form like a second skin. She lunged for Amrothos, who easily evaded her she chased him across the beach. Hiking up her skirts, she dove and tackled him into the sand.

"She's got you now, little brother," Erchirion crowed, as Lothíriel grabbed Amrothos by the ankles and dragged him into the water. Amrothos twisted and grabbed her wrists, yanking her down.

"Boromir, are you just going to sit there and let your future wife get drowned?" Lothíriel yelped, writhing and twisting to break loose.

Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, had betrothed his daughter to the elder son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, when she had been just eight. Her distant cousin was over two decades her senior, but treated his fiancée well. At her father's strict order, Lothíriel was not to be married until after her eighteenth birthday, but spent much of her time with her brothers and cousins nonetheless.

"I don't know, Alqua." Boromir grinned mischievously, in mock hesitation. "I doubt your brothers would care for my interference."

"Boromir!" Lothíriel called warningly, narrowing her eyes.

"For such a tiny girl, she's quite imposing," Faramir whispered to Erchirion. He stifled a laugh as Boromir waded in, scooping her up out of Amrothos' reach and swinging her up to sit on his shoulders.

"Charge!" Lothíriel commanded, giggling. Boromir jumped forward accordingly, chasing after his brother.

"What did I ever do?" Faramir cried, moving just out of reach.

"Does it matter?" Boromir asked, tackling him into the water. Lothíriel fell off, landing on Faramir and holding him under the water. Boromir picked her up once more, and Faramir sat up, spitting saltwater.

"Can we please just have the picnic already?" he begged, shaking his hair out of his eyes.

"Let's ask the birthday girl, shall we?" Boromir suggested, craning his neck to look up at his cousin. "What do you think, alqua?"

"It's my birthday, too," Amrothos grumbled, trying to get the sand out of his hair. Boromir ignored him.

"Picnic time!" Lothíriel decreed, and Boromir passed her a dry blanket as he set her down on the beach. Elphir laid out the tablecloth, and Erchirion place his two baskets at the center. "What did Culuma pack for us?"

"Roasted chicken, white rolls, honey-glazed carrots, and sweet tea," Erchirion replied, putting down the food on the plates Faramir had set out. "And there's apple pie, because it's Amrothos' favorite, and pecan pie, because it's your favorite." Lothíriel smiled, pouring the tea into the glasses before them.

"A toast," Boromir proposed, lifting his glass. The others followed suit, raising their glasses as well. "To my Swan Princess and my cousin, may your year be filled with joy and happiness."

"Hail!" the others responded, glasses clinking in midair as they saluted the two youngest among them.

"He took the good toast," Erchirion grumbled, raising his glass once more. That drew a laugh from the others assembled there, and he smiled slightly. "To my favorite younger siblings—"

"We're your only younger siblings!" Lothíriel whispered loudly, and they fell into laughter once more.

"Do you want your birthday toast or not?" he demanded. Lothíriel and Amrothos nodded, and Erchirion nodded. "Very well. To my favorite youngest siblings, for a year filled with adventure and amusement."

"Hail!" they called once more, turning to face Faramir as they did so.

"To the best archer I know and the best sparring partner I've ever had, for a year filled with courage and beauty," he toasted, raising his glass.

"Hail!" they replied, following suit.

"My turn," Elphir announced, raising his glass. As the eldest brother, it was his duty to make the final toast. "To my mallos and to Amrothos, for a year filled with the blessings of Eru Ilúvatar, hail!"

"Hail!" The others raised their glasses, toasting them one final time.

"So do you want your presents now, or when we get back to Ada, at dinner?" Elphir asked, eyes twinkling.

"You have to ask?" Amrothos demanded. "Of course we want them now!" Lothíriel swallowed her too-large bite of chicken, nodding agreement. Amrothos chuckled, handing over two long, thin boxes.

"Ladies first!" Lothíriel called, reaching for her present.

"Eldest first!" Amrothos retorted, elbowing her out of the way and grabbing his gift. Lothíriel stuck her tongue out at him, but allowed him to open his present first nonetheless, returning her attention to her food. Amrothos' eyes widened at the longsword in his box, with a hilt wrapped in black leather, descending to a mirror-bright blade with a winter-keen point. Delicate Elvish script marked the blood channel, sparkling and winking in the sun as he drew it carefully. Underneath the blade lay a polishing cloth, a whetstone, and a small bag of sand. He stood slowly, drawing it to find that it fit his hand perfectly, as though merely an extension of his arm.

"Your sword is Árecolindo, Lightbearer in the Elven tongue. You must promise to train with this sword, and keep it in perfect condition," Elphir instructed him. "Will you do this, Amrothos?"

"I promise," Amrothos replied reverently, brushing his fingers along the blade. Elphir nodded, turning to Lothíriel and smiling.

"Your turn, mallos," he announced, pushing her package closer. Lothíriel opened it carefully, preserving the wrappings. Amrothos glared at her impatiently, but she merely pushed back the fleece covers more slowly, eyes widening in awe as she beheld the recurve bow of pale white hickory in front of her, with sculpted gold vines around the arrow rest and at the tips. It spanned just over half her body length from tip to tip, with arcing curves between each tip and the arrow rest. A coil of string and a small jar of oil sat next to a quiver of two dozen slender arrows fletched with swan feathers. "I went through all the old tales, and the histories, and found that one of the histories of the Woodland Elves had descriptions of how to make an elven bow. This is made in the style of the bows of Lothlorien, the Golden Wood, but the family crest is embossed on the tips. "

"Elphir, this is beautiful," she breathed. "But please, please tell me you did not kill a swan for these." Elphir chuckled.

"No, Swan Princess, I did not," he pledged. "I picked up the feathers from among those the swans molted. I know the story as well as you."

"What story?" Boromir asked, curious.

"You never told him?" Amrothos turned to Lothíriel, disbelieving. "That's your favorite story."

"No, the Lay of Leithian is my favorite story, and then the Chronicle of Cirion and Eorl, and then the Ainulindalë," Lothíriel protested stubbornly. "The Swan-Lady of Dol Amroth was real."

"Now I have to hear this stor—this narrative," Boromir corrected hastily, seeing the look on her face.

"Alright," Lothíriel acquiesced, settling back in the sand until she was comfortable. "In the long ago, there was an Elven prince, a hunter of great renown. While hunting, he became lost in the forest, and made his way to copse of trees by lake, there planning to stay the night. Three swans flew over the lake, landing on the shore, and as one landed, she threw back her wings as you would throw back a cloak, and revealed herself to be a woman. The Prince watched her, entranced by her beauty, but fell asleep, exhausted by his hunting. He woke the next day to the flapping of wings, as the swans flew off once more."

"So was she a woman, or a swan?" Boromir interrupted.

"She was both," Lothíriel replied. "Now hush. The story's only just begun. He stayed at the lake, night after night, and saw that on a hot night, she threw her cloak off. Desirous of speaking to her while she remained a woman, he stole the cloak. He slipped back into the forest, and waited for her to rise. The next night, he returned, bowing before her, and offering the cloak.

'Hast though stolen my cloak from me?' the maiden asked, for she spoke Quenya. 'Know this, if I am a woman all day, once I regain the cloak, I must pay back the time, and remain swan all night for each day as a woman.'

"Full of sorrow, the Prince returned her cloak, asking only that she return and speak to him when she was woman once more. And she did so, and they began to learn of each other. The Prince learned that the other two swans were her father and mother, both of the First-Born, who had chosen to become swans rather than be separated from each other.

"After many days, the Prince regretfully realized that it was necessary for him to return to his lands, and did so with a heavy heart, pledging to make it the law of his land to protect swans. He feared that he would never see the Swan-maiden again, but one winter night, the three swans landed on his parapet walk, for the lake was frozen. The Swan-maiden begged shelter of him, and he gave it gladly.

"The swans wintered there, and the Prince and the Swan-maiden declared their love for each other in the spring, pledging troth to each other. The Swan-maiden's swan-cloak was put away in a trunk, and locked, so that she might not have to return to her avian form for countless days. They lived together happily, and had many children and grandchildren and even great-grandchildren. But while the Prince was gifted with a lifespan far beyond that of lesser men, he was yet of the Second-Born, and thus doomed to die. The Princess, however, was of the First-Born, and grieved as he felt the weight of his years upon him.

"One night, as the Prince and the Princess and all their family sat in the garden, the Princess felt the chill of the autumn air, and wished for some covering. The grandson of the Prince's heir ran inside, eager to please his great-grandmother, and found a cloak of white feathers in the trunk in the corner. Tiptoeing through the garden, he snuck up behind her and draped it over her shoulders, meaning to surprise her. It was he instead who was surprised, as her form melted into that of a swan. Her husband embraced her, knowing that Ulmo, Lord of the Seas, would call for him to return home soon as well. Indeed, he lived but one winter longer, with the three swans constantly at his side. They returned to their lake in the woods only after his death." Lothíriel finished the tale and smiled up at Boromir.

"And that is why the crest of Dol Amroth is a swan," Amrothos explained. "Lothíriel believes that the story is true. The rest of us grew out of it eventually, but she holds on to the tale."

"Don't start fighting, Alqua," Boromir said quickly, placing a restraining hand on her arm. "It's your birthday, after all."

"And it's my turn to hand out presents," Erchirion interjected, before Lothíriel could say anything. "Lothíriel, you can go first this time." Lothíriel grinned at her big brother, taking the small box he offered. "I hope you'll like it."

Lothíriel untied the thin gold ribbon around the box, slipping it open and unwrapping the thin white fabric to reveal a delicate flower of pure gold, hammered so thin as to nearly be translucent, framed by lacy silver leaves.

"It's for your hair," he explained, uncertain. "There's cloth underneath, so that it's comfortable, and—"

"It's beautiful, big brother," she replied, smiling. "I love it." She leaned over and kissed his cheek, and he smiled in return, relieved.

"Can I put it in for you?" he offered, and she nodded, handing it over. He slid the clip into her hair, pinning back the loose sepia curls. "There. You look beautiful, little sister." She smiled shyly, and Erchirion kissed her forehead before handing over a larger box to Amrothos.

"This is for you, runt," he teased, as Amrothos tore it open, pulling out a gold chainmail belt the width of three fingers, with four notches of various sizes for weapons spaced along it. "It took me nigh on a week to make, but it will serve you well."

"Thank you, Erchirion," Amrothos replied, clipping the belt on over his water-soaked breeches.

"I'll let my sparring partner go first," Faramir decided, passing Amrothos a fist-sized box. "Although I can't say I made it, unlike Erchirion."

"I'm sure I'll like it anyw—Manwë and Varda!" he exclaimed.

"Guard your tongue, Amrothos," Lothíriel admonished, frowning at him.

"Just look at it, Lothíriel!" he insisted. Lothíriel sighed and did so, and gasped audibly. The box held a round silver clasp, inlaid with crystals strung along a silver wire to form the swan crest of Dol Amroth. "How did you get this, Faramir?" Faramir smiled.

"I spend a lot of my time in the smithies and armories, and one of the smiths had always wanted to be jeweler," he explained. "So when I mentioned that I wanted to get you a cloak-pin for your birthday, he wanted to help."

"I haven't words enough to thank you for this," Amrothos replied finally. Faramir clapped him on the shoulder, and handed over Lothíriel's gift.

"This is for the fairer half of my favorite youngest cousins," he quipped as she accepted a box the length of her forearm. "And I do believe you'll find it useful, in light of the reports my father received recently, regarding the movements of orcs along the border."

Lothíriel disregarded her former sedate pace and tore the box open. She sat, trembling, as she looked at its contents, and her brothers regarded her curiously.

"This is an Arnorian blade," she said reverently, hardly daring to lift it out of the box. It was a long, leaf-shaped dagger, damasked with serpent-forms in red and gold, resting inside a sheath of black metal, set with small red gemstones.

"Made by the Dúnedain," Faramir agreed, smiling proudly. "I found it at the back of one of the old armories, underneath a pile of melted-down scrap metal. Whatever gift it has been endowed with, it did not burn."

"They say these blades are wound with spells for the bane of Mordor," Lothíriel whispered, drawing it cautiously. The blade was twice as long as her handspan was wide, with a cylindrical hilt inlaid with gold wire and red stones. Along the blade, Sindarin script arced and curled. "Foe of the great-fear," she read, tracing the letters. "Faramir, if you ever wish my life, you may have it, for this alone." Faramir chuckled, ruffling her hair.

"I am glad it pleases you, cousin," he said fondly. "Now, I believe Boromir has yet to offer his gifts."

"Amrothos may go first, but only because I wish to give Lothíriel her present after all her other presents have been given," Boromir announced. "Amrothos, I do not bear your gift with me. Rather, when we return home, you will find, in your stables, the black stallion you so admired when last you visited Minas Tirith." Amrothos' face reflected shock and delight, and Lothíriel laughed to see it.

"May I give Amrothos his gift?" she interjected, breaking Amrothos' silent shock. She passed him the smallest box that had yet been given, blushing slightly. "I apologize for its size, and if it is not pleasing to you, I will find something better, I promise." Amrothos opened the box, bemused, finding an intricately woven ring of gold wire and tiny seed-pearls. "Those times you caught me sneaking out early in the morning—I was coming here, to harvest the oysters, and make you this."

"It's perfect, onóre," Amrothos insisted earnestly. "I'll never take it off." He slipped it out of its wrapping, placing it on his finger then and there. "And this is for you. Close your eyes and hold out both hands."

"If you so much as think about putting a frog in them—" she warned, complying. Amrothos chuckled, and she felt the soft rub of leather against her forearms and wrists, tightening until they fit well. She opened her eyes, glancing down and smiling back up at him immediately. "Did you make these?" 'These' were a pair of handworked leather armguards, stamped with silver vines from wrist to elbow. Silver buckles held them in place, each one embossed with the crest of Dol Amroth.

Amrothos looked at her, and her smile broadened. He grinned in reply, raising one eyebrow, and she nodded.

"I feel so foolish when they speak without talking aloud," Faramir whispered, leaning toward Elphir. Elphir merely chuckled, shaking his head.

"You become accustomed to it after a time," Erchirion admitted. "It comes of their being the youngest of the family, I suppose—she and Amrothos have always been especially close." Lothíriel rose to fasten the sheath of her new dagger to her belt, and Boromir turned to face her.

"There's one last present, mallos," he reminded her, holding the small box he'd been toying with all afternoon. Half-rising from his seated position, he bore his weight on one knee and held out the box. "We have been pledged by our fathers since you were less than half as old as you are now, but it is you I wish to ask now." He opened the box, revealing a lacy silver band set with a star sapphire of purest blue. "Lothíriel Mithelessa, Swan Princess of Dol Amroth, will you grant me the honor of becoming my wife?"

Lothíriel held out one shaking hand, looking straight into his eyes.

"There is nothing in the world I would be happier to do, laire," she replied, voice trembling. Boromir smiled up at her, slipping the ring over her fourth finger and kissing the back of her hand.

"It will be an honor and a pleasure, mallos," Boromir said, rising without letting go of her hand.

"We should return soon," Elphir announced finally, beginning to pack the empty dishes into the basket. "Perhaps wear something more formal for dinner?" Lothíriel giggled, looking down at her still-dripping dress and the blanket she wore over it. Erchirion passed her the box containing her new bow, which she tucked under her free arm. Boromir took the tablecloth as Amrothos picked up his gifts, leading the way back up the cliff.

* * *

A/N:

Hello! My first story here is officially underway, and I'm very excited. I'm always open to reviews (unless they're flames or trolls) and PMs, so feel free to chat anytime. Hope you enjoy!

Words to Note: So I've included some Quenya words in here, but only because Dol Amroth was rumored to have Elven blood in the line. I assumed that after spending time around their cousins, Boromir and Faramir would pick up on a few words as well. The words used are mostly terms of endearment.

Mallos: a golden flower that grows on the plains and mountains of Gondor

Laire: summer

Onóre: sister

Finally, I had planned to mess with Tolkien's world (sacrilege, I know) and make Amrothos and Lothíriel twins, but I decided not to do that—I just gave them the same birthday. Other than that, everything is canon—ages, names, etc.

Also, here are the links to the blends I created of my characters and Tolkien's—just you have an idea of what I was thinking of when I wrote them.


	2. Chapter 2

"…'_I have received this,' said Denethor, and laying down his robe he lifted from his lap the thing he had been gazing at. In each hand he held up one half of a great horn cloven through the middle: a wild-ox horn bound with silver._

_ 'That is the horn that Boromir always wore!' cried Pippin._

_ 'Verily,' said Denethor. 'And in my turn I bore it, and so did each eldest son of our house, far back into the vanished years before the failing of the kings, since Vorondil father of Mardil hunted the wild kine of Araw in the far fields of Rh__ûn. I heard it blowing dim upon the northern marches thirteen days ago, and the River brought it to me, broken: it will wind no more.'"_

8 Súlimë III 3019

Dol Amroth

* * *

The air of the beaches of Dol Amroth was noticeably cooler than the air on its cliffs, and Lothíriel tugged her cloak tighter. War had not yet reached the shores of Dol Amroth, but messengers arrived almost daily from Minas Tirith and Osgiliath, with word of orcs gathering behind the Black Gate and elsewhere. For now, though, Lothíriel could walk on the beach in peace, watched only by her bodyguard, Dírmaethor, at the top of the dune behind her. She rubbed her pin on her dress absentmindedly—it was Boromir's, given to her before he left for the Council in Rivendell, as a promise that he would marry her upon his return—as she did often while thinking.

Though it was low tide, few shells littered the beach, much to her disappointment. She was about to return home when she caught sight of a long, curved shell, in a beautiful shade of creamy white. Eagerly, she knelt to pick it up, digging it out of the sand with her bare hands. It was buried deeper than she had expected, and had an odd shape, one she'd never seen in a shell before. Lifting it from its sand-locked position, she froze, seeing that it was not, as she had thought, a shell. The arc of white bone gave way to black, ending in a small silver mouthpiece. Silver bands, embossed with the crest of Minas Tirith, capped the other, wider end. But it was cloven in twain, and she could not look away.

Dírmaethor watched with concern as her body went perfectly still, then began to shake—it was only just perceptible, at first, but as tremors washed over her body, he left his position, stepping up behind her.

"My Lady, are you injured?" he asked. He was but a few years Elphir's elder, and had long been the bodyguard of the Swan Princess—like an uncle, rather than merely a protector. Lothíriel turned slowly to face him, her face dead white and her eyes distant. She lifted the horn slowly, so that he could see it.

"Boromir," she whispered, and crumpled to the ground. She had a dim awareness of someone carrying her, and then of someone prying Boromir's horn from her hands. She didn't want to let it go, and clutched it tight to her chest, but the other pair of hands was stronger, and they took the horn from her. The world grew blurry again after that, and her return to awareness was accompanied by the soft weight of a hand against her hair, fixing her pin.

"Please wake up, onóre," she heard dimly, as though from far away. "Come back." She tried to open her mouth and insist that she was fine, that she needed but a moment's rest, but found that her mouth was too dry. She began to cough, and found that she couldn't stop. A hand put a cup of water to her lips and she drank eagerly, droplets spilling down her cheeks in her excitement. A second hand pressed a cloth to her jaw, wiping the water away. Lothíriel opened her eyes slowly, blinking as the three circles above her resolved into her brothers' faces, all etched with worry and concern, and she struggled to sit up.

"Stay still, onóre," Amrothos insisted. It was his hand on her forehead, moving to her shoulder to keep her from rising. "You fainted before, on the beach. Dírmaethor bore you back to your chambers, and the Healer had to forbid Ada to enter. He was very worried about you." Lothíriel shook her head, not looking up.

"Where is the horn?" she asked finally. Had she looked up, she would have seen the somber looks exchanged by Erchirion and Elphir. "Where is Boromir's horn?"

"Ada is sending it to Minas Tirith," Amrothos said gently. "Onóre, you know that Boromir would not have given up that horn were he alive, no matter what damage was done to it." Lothíriel shook her head, not sure what she was denying or to whom. "Ada sent an emissary toward Rohan, to see if they, too, were under attack by orcs, and was told by the Eorlingas that the White Wizard has taken control of the king's mind and that Rohan is no longer safe, but that they met three companions—an elf, a man, and a dwarf—who claimed to be of the Fellowship of the Ring, sent out by the Council of Rivendell." Lothíriel's eyes lit up, and she began to smile, but Elphir shook his head. "The man was called Strider, and was not of Gondor. He was searching for two more of his companions—Halflings, or Hobbits, he called them—as they had been taken by orcs after the death of the man protecting them." Elphir watched with concern as Lothíriel crumpled, sinking into her pillows as though trying to bury herself in them.

"I would like to rest, please," she said finally, her voice flat. "I am tired."

"Then we'll stay right here, and make sure that you sleep soundly," Amrothos insisted, smoothing back the hair from her forehead. She flinched away, jerking backwards.

"I would prefer to be alone, but thank you," Lothíriel replied, still in a monotone. "I will find you when I awake." Her eyes were dead and distant, but held no chance of compromise, and her brothers reluctantly filed out of the room. Amrothos turned back just in time to see her hide her face in the pillows, and shut the door in order to let her cry in solitude.

* * *

Lothíriel emerged from her bedchamber hours later, face pale but set, wearing Boromir's heavy, too-big cloak over her slender shoulders.

"Onóre!" Elphir called, relieved. He had been seated just outside her door, and scrambled upright as she passed. "Father said to just let you sleep, and you missed dinner, but Amrothos and Erchirion and I got Culuma to save you a tray. It's in my room—"

"I'm not hungry," Lothíriel said quietly, continuing to walk. "I would like to look at the stars for a time, to settle my thoughts."

"You haven't eaten since dawn this morning," Elphir replied. "You need to eat something, onóre." Lothíriel did not resist as he took her arm and led her towards his chambers, her face impassive as she followed him mindlessly.

"There you are," Amrothos said, relief evident in his voice as she entered. "Eat something." He placed a roll in her hands, and she looked at it as though unsure what to do with it. "Eat, mallos." She brought the roll to her lips and broke off a piece, chewing automatically, her eyes distant and vague. "That's better."

"Are you alright?" Erchirion asked, tucking Boromir's cloak more tightly about her shivering form.

"I am fine," she said flatly. "I am perhaps more tired than usual, but I am well. I promise."

"Mallos, you are clearly not fine," Amrothos said gently. "You have just lost your betrothed. We have just lost our cousin. You need not be strong just now."

"I am fine," Lothíriel repeated. "I am tired. That is all. I am—" Amrothos stifled her mantra by pulling her into a tight hug, and she buried her head in his shoulder. Her whole body shook, but no sound came out, and Elphir slipped off the bed to wrap his arms around her as well. After a moment's hesitation, Erchirion joined them.

"I miss him," Lothíriel whispered, her voice muffled by her brother's shoulder. "It hurts, Amrothos. My heart hurts."

"I know," Amrothos replied simply, holding her tightly. "I know."

* * *

A/N: Short and sad...sorry. To make up for the shortness, I'll try to post the next chapter early.


	3. Chapter 3

"…_And last and proudest, Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, kinsman of the Lord, with gilded banners bearing his token of the Ship and the Silver Swan, and a company of knights in full harness riding grey horses, and behind them seven hundreds of men at arms, tall as lords, grey-eyed, dark-haired, singing as they came."_

_-The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King_

16 Sulimë III 3019

Dol Amroth

Elphir had never seen his sister so dedicated. Every day for the past week, he had found her on the archery buttes, practicing her form for hours on end. Once, when she had gone inside for a moment, he had tried her bow, to test its strength. Much to his surprise, though he was more than capable of drawing it, it had taken a good deal of effort to draw it to its fullest.

Today, as usual, she was out on the buttes, a pleasant hum rising from her bow each time she loosed an arrow. He saw four empty quivers at her feet, each one labeled as holding a different type of arrow—some armor-piercing broadheads and needleheads, others tipped with oil-soaked rags to serve as fire arrows, still others barbed or narrow and shaped for range. She looked up as a score of men-at-arms ran past, shouting orders and slinging packs onto their shoulders as they went.

"Elphir, what's going on?" Lothíriel demanded, turning to face him. Elphir looked at her gravely.

"Gondor has lit the beacons for aid," he said grimly. "Ada is leading two hundred Swan Knights and 700 men-at-arms to Minas Tirith to fight. The final battle is coming, onóre. We go to fight for Middle-earth." Before he could finish speaking, Lothíriel was gone, hiking up her skirts as she made for the stables.

"Ada!" she cried, looking between the stalls. "Ada, where are you?" She caught sight of him as he mounted his charger, rising above the gates and fences of the stalls. "Ada, wait!"

Surprised, he reined in his steed, turning to look down at her.

"What is it, Little Swan?" he asked. Lothíriel was struck silent for a moment as she took in his armored appearance and the reality of his journey hit her.

"I want to fight, Ada," she said firmly, though her voice held the slightest hint of a tremor. "I want to ride to Minas Tirith with you."

"Absolutely not," he replied instantly. "I will not risk the life of my only daughter in battle!"

"Ada, you know I can fight!" Lothíriel insisted. "Or if I can't, I can work in the Houses of Healing! Please, Ada, let me just ride with you to Minas Tirith and work as a healer. I do not wish to be left behind. Let me come, for Boromir's sake, Ada." Her father looked at her curiously, seeing an older, wiser sadness in her eyes.

"I cannot let you come, daughter," he said quietly. "If we go to our doom, I would not condemn you with us. If your brothers and I do not return, you will lead our people with the Council to advise you. For now, though, I have appointed Lord Galen as regent."

"But Ada—" she protested. He shook his head.

"This is final, daughter," he said firmly. "You are not to come with us. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Ada," she said finally, disappointment evident. "Yes, I do."

"Good," Imrahil replied, relief evident in his voice. "I love you very much, Little Swan."

"I love you too, Ada," Lothíriel promised, smiling softly up at him.

"Now, go find your brothers," Imrahil ordered. "I do not believe they would leave without first saying their farewells to you." Lothíriel turned and ran off, and Imrahil watched her go.

"Mallos!" Amrothos called, and Lothíriel turned to see her brothers leading their mounts from the stables. She ran to them, arms outstretched, and Amrothos caught her easily. "You didn't think we'd leave without first saying goodbye, did you?" Lothíriel giggled despite her disappointment, hugging him tightly.

"Of course I knew you'd come to say goodbye," she replied, smiling impishly. "You'd miss me too much if you didn't!"

"We would indeed, mallos," Amrothos agreed, planting a kiss on her forehead. "We'd miss you far too much."

"Don't worry, onóre," Erchirion said, wrapping his arm about her shoulders. "We'll be back before you know it. Just make sure there's a lovely feast for us when we return, and all will be well."

A horn sounded in the distance, and her brothers' faces darkened.

"That's the call to arms, onóre," Elphir said regretfully. "It is time for us to leave." He pulled her close and held her tightly before placing a kiss on her forehead.

"Kill a few orcs for me, onóro," Lothíriel replied, kissing his cheek for luck.

"You know I will, little sister," Elphir pledged, handing her over to Erchirion.

"The return feast had best be delicious," Erchirion warned, and Lothíriel laughed before kissing his cheek.

"I'll bake a pie for you myself," she promised.

"Did I not just say I wanted it to be delicious?" Erchirion teased, and she glared at him before bursting into a second bout of laughter.

"Luck, onóro," she said finally, managing to halt her giggles before Erchirion passed her off to Amrothos.

Lothíriel stared up at her favorite brother, struggling not to let her tears fall.

"No crying, onóre," he ordered softly, raising his eyebrows. "We'll be home soon enough. I promise." Lothíriel sniffed miserably, hugging him tightly before stepping back as he kissed her forehead.

"I Melain berio le, ná Elbereth veria le, ar no in elenath hîlar nan hâd gîn," Lothíriel whispered as her brothers mounted up and rode after their father, mustering near the main gate. She hitched up her skirts as she ran, dashing through the palace to stand on the wall and watch as they left. Her brothers all turned to look up at her as they passed, and she waved to them, fighting to keep a smile on her face as the long lines of warriors slowly faded from sight.

* * *

Author's Note: Short chapter, I know, but it's a transition. Also, I'm posting two chapters (see, I'm a nice person!). And Lothíriel's farewell translates approximately to "May the Valar keep you, may Elbereth protect you, and may all the stars shine on your path."


	4. Chapter 4

"…_the Lord of the City had beacons built on the tops of outlying hills along both borders of the great range, and maintained posts at these points where fresh horses were always in readiness to bear his errand-riders to Rohan in the North, or to Belfalas in the South."_

_-The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King_

9 March III 3019

Dol Amroth

Dírmaethor stood guard over the gate, one of the few left behind to care for the city. The night air echoed with the soft refrain of the waves against the shore, but all else was quiet. He had half-expected Lothíriel to attempt to join the departing warriors, or at least sneak out after them. Consequently, a guard had been placed outside her door, to ensure that Prince Imrahil's orders were carried out.

He cocked his head, listening, as a soft, coaxing whisper rose from below the gate, just barely loud enough to reach his ears.

"Sedho, Tegalad!" someone hissed. He turned, trying to see past the stones of parapet. "No dhínen, ar tolo hi!"

Staying close to the wall, he padded down the steps. He shook his head, unsurprised. From his position in the shadows, he could see that Lothíriel had loaded her stallion, Tegalad, with several packs, and was tugging him toward the gate. The hood of her dark grey cloak had slipped, revealing that she hadn't even taken the time to tie back her chestnut curls.

"Just how far did you expect to go without being noticed?" he asked quietly. Lothíriel started, whirling to stare up at him guiltily. Dirmaethor couldn't help but chuckle at her shocked expression. "Your father expected that you'd try something like this." Lothíriel's shoulders slumped.

"I can't stay here and just wait for them," she protested quietly, her eyes pleading for him to understand. "Not after Boromir. I just want to be there—I'll work in the Houses of Healing, sit in the most remote tower of Minas Tirith, _anything_—I just want to be there."

Dirmaethor leaned back against the gate, pensive.

"Please," she begged, her voice a barely audible whisper. "Please, Dirmaethor."

"On one condition," he said finally.

"Anything," Lothíriel promised. Dirmaethor smiled.

"I'm coming with you," he replied, drawing a pack of his own from behind his post. Lothíriel looked at him, eyes wide.

"You planned to go in any case," she accused, a smile spreading slowly over her face.

"Guilty as charged, my Lady," Dirmaethor replied, bowing deeply. "You took longer than I expected, but if we ride through the night and most of tomorrow, we should reach Minas Tirith by nightfall." Lothíriel shook her head, still amazed, before mounting Tegalad and following Dirmaethor to the picket-post.

"Will you join my father's men?" Lothíriel asked as they slipped through the gate.

"Yes, but you will not," Dirmaethor said, suddenly stern.

"I had no intention of doing so," she promised calmly. Dirmaethor raised his eyebrows, indicating her bow and the quiver of arrows slung over one shoulder. "For protection on the road," she explained. "I will go straight to the Houses of Healing and stay there. I should have plenty to do." Dirmaethor nodded his approval before kicking his horse into an easy trot. Lothíriel followed suit, and they disappeared into the night.

* * *

Lothíriel thanked Boromir silently as she led Dirmaethor through the tunnels that entered Minas Tirith by way of the mountains. The maps to those tunnels were locked in a vault in the palace, to which only the Steward and his heir had the key. Boromir had led her and her brothers through the tunnels, once, swearing them to secrecy immediately after.

She handed Tegalad's reins to Dirmaethor as she dragged open the heavy wooden door that marked the end of the tunnels. It rolled aside with nary a sound, sliding on well-greased runners. Dirmaethor blinked at the sudden brightness as they entered stables lit by mid-morning sunlight.

"I lost track of time in the tunnels," she admitted quietly, sliding the door shut. Dirmaethor raised his eyebrows, impressed, as the door slipped back into alignment with the walls of the stables, appearing as nothing more than another well-worn section of wall. "Have we made especially good time, or have we been delayed?"

"Delayed by half a day, no more," Dirmaethor replied, equally quiet, handing her Tegalad's reins once more and leading his Lairear into the last stall. Lothíriel followed suit, rubbing Tegalad down and murmuring soft words of praise as she did so.

"Memnon!" she called softly, leaning over the door. The ever-present stable boy jumped down from the loft, landing in front of her. Lothíriel started, backing into Tegalad, who whinnied sharply at the intrusion. "Sorry, sorry," she whispered, carefully rubbing his nose in apology. Memnon snickered, and Lothíriel glared at him.

"Sorry," he replied, utterly unrepentant. Lothíriel rolled her eyes and flipped him a gold coin.

"For your silence," she informed him. Memnon hefted it, testing its weight, and bit it before nodding his agreement.

"Not a word," he promised, disappearing into the loft once more.

"Strange lad," Dirmaethor remarked. Lothíriel shrugged, slinging her packs over her shoulder. "To the Houses of Healing, then?"

"To the rooftop of the Houses of Healing," she corrected. "I'll need to hide my belongings, else the Healers will ask questions."

"You'll need to wear a dress as well," Dirmaethor observed. Lothíriel sighed, looking down regretfully at the tunic and breeches she'd borrowed from Elphir's trunk.

"Then a trip to the guest rooms at the palace, first," she replied, unfazed. "I've plenty of dresses there."

"Will you stay there as well?" Dirmaethor asked. Lothíriel shook her head emphatically.

"Father will be there," she explained. "I'll just gather a few things, and stay at the Houses."

"You'll be safe there?" he confirmed, shouldering his own packs. Lothíriel nodded. "I'll be with the men-at-arms, keeping well away from your father." She chuckled wryly, nodding agreement once more.

"Thank you, Dirmaethor," she added quietly. Dirmaethor bowed low. "Be safe."

"And you, my Lady," he replied, equally quiet. He bowed once more before setting off at a brisk trot. Lothíriel tugged her pack over her shoulder, patting Tegalad's nose one last time before turning to face the White Palace.

"Memnon, get down here," she ordered. This time, when Memnon landed in front of her, she managed not to jump backwards.

"You called?" he smirked. Lothíriel shook her head.

"I need you to get me into the palace without the guards seeing me," she replied.

"And what makes you think I'd know how to do a thing like that?" Memnon asked nonchalantly. Lothíriel held up a coin, and Memnon shook his head. She pulled out a second coin. Memnon reached for it eagerly, but she held it just out of reach.

"One when we get inside the palace, and one when we get back out," she cautioned. Memnon rolled his eyes. "Or I find my own way in."

"Deal," Memnon decided reluctantly, leading her to an empty stall and opening a panel at its rear. "Where in the palace?"

"The storage rooms. My clothes are there," Lothíriel informed him, wrinkling her nose at the worn, cramped tunnel through which they crawled. "Is there an easier way to get out?"

"You mean one that won't get your dresses so dirty?" Memnon teased. "Yes. It just doesn't lead back to the stables."

"Where does it lead?" Lothíriel asked, curious.

"The Houses of Healing," Memnon replied, and Lothíriel smiled as they crawled into the first storage room.

"My trunks are against the far wall," she said, brushing off her hands and legs before opening them. Plain cotton dresses in shades of white, grey, black, dark blue, and dark green lay neatly stacked on top, square-necked with long, fitted sleeves and the crest of Dol Amroth embroidered at the hems and necklines. She scooped them up, placing them carefully in her pack to avoid jarring her bow. A thick braid of ribbons lay bared in the trunk as she removed the dresses, and she added them to her burden as well.

"What's all that for?" Memnon asked, puzzled.

"To keep my hair out of my face," Lothíriel replied. "Where is this second tunnel? I would prefer not to tarry." Memnon indicated the closet door on the wall, twisting the doorknob right, then left, then right again. When he opened it, the back wall was gone, revealing a twisting staircase.

"Takes us right under the streets and into the basement of the Houses," he explained, his voice echoing in the stone passageway. "And you won't even have to duck." Before leading her into it, he turned around, holding out one hand. Lothíriel sighed, placing the first gold coin in it. Memnon's fist closed tightly about it, and it disappeared into his pocket.

"How far?" she asked, following him into the passageway.

"Not far at all," Memnon promised, pushing spiderwebs out of the way. "Watch your step. There are loose stones on the floor."

Lothíriel glanced down, just barely making out a few crumbling pavers at her feet in time to avoid tripping on them. Memnon snickered, then glanced down in response to her angry glare.

"Up this staircase, here," he indicated, leading her up a seemingly endless spiral staircase. Lothíriel was dizzy by the time she reached the top, but handed over the second coin to Memnon nonetheless as they entered the lowest levels of the Houses of Healing. Lothíriel stood still, looking at Memnon awkwardly as he didn't move. She cleared her throat, and he looked at her, puzzled. She sighed, pulling a dress out of her bag and holding up. Memnon's face lit up in understanding.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, ducking back into the tunnel. "Not a word, I promise." Lothíriel waited until the sound of his footsteps receded. She shook her head, stripping off her brother's borrowed clothes and slipping into a dress. Her hair she bound back with one of the many ribbons now in her pack before brushing the front of her dress and proceeding up the stairs.

The Houses were an entire level of interconnected buildings, each housing different patients. Lothíriel made for the House of Warriors, where injured soldiers were treated. The outer complex was spacious, filled with arches and columns and winding, flowering vines. At the heart of the complex lay the House itself, with wards that filled entire floors and private rooms for high-ranking patients. Lothíriel snuck through the courtyards, hoping to reach the roof without detection.

"Alqua!" someone called. She turned, cringing, to see Aradan, her former mentor, walking swiftly toward her, his silvered hair bound in a flowing ponytail that bounced with every step.

"How fare you, Lord Aradan?" she replied, bowing her head in deference to his position.

"Alqua, as I told you when received your Healer's scroll, no such honorific is needed," Aradan shook his head, smiling as he caught up to and fell into step with her. "I've rarely been gladder to see you—from what the White Wizard has told us, Healers will be greatly needed in the coming days."

"I'm glad to help—" Lothíriel began, but Aradan cut her off, talking quickly.

"I've not long to speak with you—there is much to prepare—but I've marvelous news, Alqua—I've been named Warden of the House of Warriors!" he said hastily, beaming. Lothíriel's eyes widened, and she halted in her tracks, bowing deeply. The Warden of any given House was considered a master of healing arts, equal to any guild-leader or Commander of the Tower Guard.

"Congratulations, Aradan!" she replied, meaning the words. Aradan had taken her as an apprentice just after her eighth birthday, while visiting her cousins. He had accepted without question her explanation that she lived in the countryside six months out of the year and came to Minas Tirith because her mother wanted her to become a Healer. Already renowned throughout all the Houses at 30, Aradan had arranged for her to take home books on anatomy, healing, and medicinal plants to study while she was away. "What may I do to help?"

"A half-dozen Healers and apprentices or so are following the local herb-women to gather plants outside the walls," Aradan informed her. "If you would, extra hands are always needed. And if you've skill with that"—he indicated her bow—"I would be far more comfortable. We've no more soldiers available."

"I'd be glad to, L—Aradan," Lothíriel promised. "I'll stow my pack, and go with them immediately."

"Eru Ilúvatar grant you his luck," Aradan said, clapping her on the shoulder as he hastened his pace.

"Estë the Gentle grant you hers," Lothíriel called after him, nearly bowling over an apprentice as she turned to enter the first floor. She took the three flights of stairs leading to the roof terrace at a trot, hiding her pack behind a large shrub and snatching her cloak from it as she ran before returning to the first floor as quickly as she had come. Rounding the final corner, she ran head-on into an apprentice, and landed hard at the bottom of the stairs.

"You really know how to make an entrance, don't you?" the apprentice asked wryly, his dry voice familiar. Lothíriel smiled, embarrassed, and accepted his proffered hand as she got up.

"Sorry about that, Corwin," she apologized. Corwin chuckled, picking up her cloak. Tossing it over her shoulders, he pinned it at her throat before brushing her hair free of the hood. Lothíriel fidgeted slightly, uncomfortable at his closeness.

Corwin had entered training when she was fourteen, also under Aradan's mentorship. He was considered a late-starter, as he was of an age with her, but was nearing the end of his apprenticeship. He had made no secret of his feelings for the girl he knew as Alqua, no matter how many times she rebuffed him.

Lothíriel stepped back hastily, fixing her cloak for herself and tugging up her hood.

"I'm supposed to help the group gathering plants outside the walls," she informed him, drawing out her bow and quiver and slipping them over her cloak.

"I'll join you. I've nothing better to do," Corwin called, stepping quickly to keep up with her. Lothíriel sighed. "And I can take that for you. Who are you supposed to be delivering it to?" Lothíriel turned, confused.

"Who am I supposed to take what to?" she asked.

"That bow," Corwin replied, grabbing the arrow rest and trying to tug it free of her shoulder. Lothíriel yanked it back.

"This is my bow, thank you very much, and I'm more than capable of using it," she retorted angrily. Corwin let go, throwing up his hands in mock surrender. Lothíriel rolled her eyes at him, turning and departing at a trot to catch up with the group of apprentices and Healers exiting the gate. She heard Corwin following, but didn't turn. The group did, and Lothíriel saw several familiar faces among them. Still angry with Corwin, Lothíriel tugged at her hood until it covered her face, following along in silence. There was a small grove of trees to the northwest of the city, and the herb-women led them there.

"We're looking for white willow bark, arnica, ginger, feverfew—herbs that treat pain. We planted some aloe shoots here last spring, but we've no idea how they've grown. If you find any mature aloe leaves, we would absolutely take some back to make aloe paste. Should you find kava kava, ivy—not poisonous, of course—or raspberry leaves, feel free to gather than as well, but we have more than enough camellia, so leave those to grow. You are all able to recognize the plants we need?" one of the Healers asked. Those assembled nodded, taking sacks as they were passed around. Lothíriel moved immediately to the far side of the grove, picking carefully through the thick growth at the base of a large oak.

"I didn't mean to offend you," Corwin said quietly, coming up beside her. Lothíriel jumped, caught by surprise. She turned back to her work, ignoring him. "I'm sorry, Alqua. Truly."

"I'm more than capable of taking care of myself, Corwin," Lothíriel replied flatly. "I resent any insinuation to the contrary."

"I'm just not used to women being able to fight," Corwin explained weakly. "Being allowed to fight, I mean." Lothíriel sighed, rising and pulling Corwin behind a tree, isolating them from the others.

"Can you keep a secret?" she asked resignedly. Corwin nodded slowly, seemingly taking things seriously for once.

"I'll tell no one," he pledged.

"My name isn't Alqua," Lothíriel began. "I don't spend six months of the year at home in the countryside, because I don't live in the countryside either. My father is the Steward's cousin, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth."

"So that would make you—" Corwin began.

"A princess, yes," Lothíriel finished. Corwin stared at her for a moment, utterly shocked.

"And your real name, then?" he asked, his face and voice inscrutable.

"Lothíriel Mithelessa," she replied, unconsciously straightening as she did so. "Please, Corwin, you can't tell anyone—"

"Well, that makes a lot more sense," Corwin interrupted.

"I—what?" Lothíriel stammered. Corwin clasped her wrist, turning her hand over to show her palm.

"No calluses," he explained. "Your hands are far too nice for any farm girl, for one. For another, even when you try to change how you talk—and believe me, it's not hard to notice—your speech is far too educated. Your dresses are well-made, and those mysterious gifts you receive are left by a palace messenger or one of the Steward's sons." Lothíriel shot him a bewildered glance. "I spied on—I mean, happened to see Lord Boromir bring you a bouquet of flowers at Midwinter," he clarified. Lothíriel glared at him, relenting only when he released her wrist. "I won't tell, Al—Lothíriel." She shook her head.

"It's best if you continue to call me Alqua," she cautioned.

"Very well, then," Corwin agreed. "And Alqua? Thank you. For trusting me, I mean." Lothíriel inclined her head regally, and they returned to the clearing.

"So why the bow, then?" he asked conversationally. Lothíriel chuckled.

"I've three older brothers and two male cousins. If I ever wanted to spend time with them, embroidery wasn't exactly an option," she explained.

"Fair enough," Corwin admitted. "But why did you take it with you while we're gathering plants?"

"Master Aradan asked me to bring it, for protection," Lothíriel replied.

"Protection from what?" Corwin asked, skeptical. Lothíriel looked up sharply, hearing something more than the quiet chatter and movements of the Healers as they went about their work. "Alqua, what are you—"

Lothíriel hissed a warning at him, pushing him into a pile of brush before slipping the bow loose of her shoulder and fitting an arrow to the string. She drew it back, focusing, before loosing it into the neck of an Uruk-Hai scout just outside the clearing. Several Healers screamed as he fell, tumbling into their midst. Incongruously, Corwin sat up, spitting leaves and pulling twigs out of his hair. Lothíriel just stared at the body on the ground, eyes wide with shock.

"Return to the city immediately," the lead Healer ordered. "Run!"

Corwin shepherded the younger apprentices out before him.

"Alqua, come on!" he yelled, turning back. Lothíriel still stood over the corpse of the Uruk-Hai, frozen.

"I killed him…" she whispered, her voice trailing off.

"Yes, and we're very grateful, now come on, Alqua!" Corwin snapped. Lothíriel didn't move. Corwin took three quick strides across the clearing, grabbing her arm and forcing her to look at him. "Lothíriel Mithelessa, either you start walking now or so help me, I will carry you back to the city slung over my shoulders."

_That_ got Lothíriel's attention. She spun, stumble-cum-running out of the clearing. Corwin kept his grip on her arm, half-dragging her when she stumbled. Aradan was waiting for them at the gate, color returning to his ashen face only as he caught sight of Corwin and Lothíriel.

"Quickly, quickly," called the Warden, ushering them in. "I'd no idea they were this close—are you alright?" Lothíriel's face was still ghostly pale, lips thin and white.

"Hold these," she ordered hastily, shoving her bow and quiver into Corwin's hands. She fell to her knees, shaking, before emptying the contents of her stomach. Aradan knelt next to her, murmuring nearly-inaudible sounds of comfort and smoothing strands of hair back from her face. Corwin stood over them awkwardly, cradling the jumble of Lothíriel's weaponry in the crook of his arms. He fumbled to tuck them under one arm, reaching for the flask at his waist and passing it to Aradan.

"It's just water, with a little lemon to clean your tongue," Corwin promised. Lothíriel managed a small sip, swilling it around her mouth before spitting it out and scrubbing her mouth with a spare handkerchief.

"You haven't done that in quite a while," Aradan jested gently. "Not since the second year of your apprenticeship, if I remember correctly."

"I'd never killed anything larger than a deer before," Lothíriel said quietly, slightly defensive. She pulled her cloak-hood back up, glancing around nervously to see if any of Dol Amroth's soldiers were nearby. Aradan and Corwin each grasped one of her arms, helping her up.

"You saved our lives, Alqua," Corwin replied, equally quiet. "Thank you." Lothíriel nodded slowly, absentmindedly accepting her bow and quiver from Corwin.

"I took the liberty of having a cot prepared for you, Alqua," Aradan said as they made their way back toward the House of Warriors. "We've no idea when the battle will start, but once it does, we'll all be catching sleep when we can. I thought it easier to have a bed at the House for you."

"Thank you, Aradan." There was some color in Lothíriel's cheeks once more, and Aradan smiled approvingly.

"We've much to prepare, yet," Corwin reminded them. "Back to the Houses?" The other two nodded in agreement. Lothíriel took one last deep breath, clearing her mind, and followed them out.

* * *

A/N: I tried to figure out how someone who'd never killed anyone before might react to being put in a situation where it's kill or be killed. I also tried to balance that against the fact that she's fully aware of what's going on, knows that the Uruks are evil, and has practiced so that she's able to kill them. Hope I managed that alright…in other news, I wanted to make Corwin's character likeable/approachable but not perfect or anything. His character's name and persona are derived a great deal from a character on the Arwen-Undomiel forum with whom I used to do RPGs (on the off chance that you're reading this, Corwin, it's Silmeriel). Reviews are welcome, as ever!


	5. Chapter 5

"…_For though all lore was in these latter days fallen from its fullness of old, the leechcraft of Gondor was still wise, and skilled in the healing of wound and hurt, and all such sickness as east of the Sea mortal men were subject to."_

_-The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King_

19 Súlimë III 3019

Houses of Healing, Minas Tirith

"Soldiers coming in!" someone called, and Lothíriel spun, tying her hair back swiftly. The soldiers borne in were not of Dol Amroth, and she heaved a silent sigh of relief. With a shake of her head, she returned her focus to the matter at hand, turning briskly to direct the Healers bearing the incoming wounded. They moved efficiently, placing the soldiers in the furthest beds first. The apprentices traveled rapidly from bed to bed, placing a red cloth on the beds of those most in need of attention, a yellow cloth on those who were badly wounded but were in no immediate danger of death, and a green cloth on the beds of those in no imminent mortal danger. From the storage room, a score of the youngest novices—those waiting to begin their apprenticeship—came out, bearing sacks of the most commonly-used healing herbs.

"Corwin, with me," she rapped out, moving toward a soldier who had thankfully passed out. His arm was barely attached to his shoulder, and there was a spreading bruise across his left temple and cheekbone. "Check that for breaks." Corwin stepped forward, applying slight pressure from the soldier's jawline to his forehead. Lothíriel turned her attention to his arm, examining the few threads of muscle that bound his arm to the bones of his shoulder. She shook her head, drawing her dagger. "I need an infusion of ivy, raspberry leaves, and camellia petals, please." Elanor—one of the novices—hurried over, placing the requested items in a mortar, grinding them into a paste with her pestle before passing the bowl to Lothíriel. She bowed and rushed off to the next Healer as Lothíriel rubbed the paste along her dagger before cleaning it off with a linen cloth made for just that purpose.

"Should I hold him?" Corwin asked quietly. "And there's no break, only some swelling. His pupils are responsive to light, so it would appear that there is no injury beyond what we can see."

"Keep his shoulder flat, and don't let his arm come up," Lothíriel ordered. Corwin obeyed, placing one restraining hand on the soldier's shoulder and another on the remnants of his upper arm. Lothíriel held her breath for a moment before cutting the arm fully off. Corwin wrapped it swiftly and placed it in the wastebasket as Lothíriel drew a basin from under the bed. She held it steady as Corwin poured a pitcher of water over the soldier's newly-made wound. "Two ounces of ground charcoal and four of aloe paste, if you please." A new novice hurried over, passing her the requested items. Corwin took the pitcher and basin to be refilled as Lothíriel shook the charcoal over the wound before coating strips of linen with the aloe paste. Corwin slid the pitcher and basin back underneath the bed, turning back to the bed to help her bind the medicated strips over the wound with a clean bandage that wrapped around his upper torso and opposite shoulder. "Corwin—"

"I'll have the novices leave willowbark tea at his bedside," he promised before she could even finish what she was saying. She managed a half-smile at that before moving to the next red-flagged bed: that of a soldier whose leg was broken in two, the bone protruding from the upper part of his leg. Blood flowed freely from the wound, and only the gag in his mouth kept him from screaming in pain. Lothíriel placed a comforting hand on his forehead, whispering a prayer to Eru.

"I'm going to replace your gag with a wooden dowel, and I need you to bite it," Corwin informed the soldier. The man nodded, gasping as Corwin did so. Lothíriel moved quickly to his leg, drawing two splints from under the bed.

"I'll do this as quickly as possible, I promise," she pledged, placing one hand on each side of the bone and pressing down hard. A scream escaped the soldier, even through the dowel, but she ignored it. The bloodflow slowed noticeably, and she wrapped the wound site itself with the last of her aloe-coated strips before placing a splint on either side of his leg. Corwin moved in quickly, wrapping his entire leg in a thick layer of clean cloth to immobilize it.

"Thank you," the soldier managed, closing his eyes with a sigh of relief. Lothíriel was already at the next bedside, that of a soldier whose entire torso was bisected by the line of a swordcut. It bled freely, but she could see that it was shallow enough to not be mortal.

"Corwin, give him six ounces of poppy seed tea and two ounces of kava kava. I want him asleep before I sew him up," Lothíriel ordered. Corwin beckoned a novice over and dosed the soldier. Lothíriel treated two broken arms and a severed hand before the soldier was fully unconscious, wordlessly accepting the needle and thread he passed her. "Did you—"

"Wipe it down with the cleaning infusion? Yes," Corwin replied, holding up the mortar. Lothíriel nodded approvingly, allowing him to pat the blood from the soldier's wound before pinching the two flaps of skin together and piercing them both with the needle. She stitched the wound closed with quick, efficient movements, tying off the string expertly. A thin layer of aloe gel went over the stitches, and Corwin wrapped his torso with bandages as she moved on to the next soldier. He was awake, but just barely, and the soldier next to him explained his wounds.

"He got hit with by flaming debris from one of the buildings, and he's burned all over both arms and shoulders. We managed to put the flames out before they reached his head or torso," the soldier next to him explained.

"Corwin, leave instructions for him to take three ounces of poppy seeds with each meal, and leave him some white willowbark tea," Lothíriel said briskly, filling the basin with water from the pitcher. "Ground aloe leaves and crushed camellia petals, please." A novice was there almost immediately, and she mixed the powders into the basin. "This will hurt," she warned the burn victim. He nodded grimly, holding both arms out as Corwin placed the second basin beneath him. Slowly, Lothíriel upended the basin, pouring its contents over his arms. A strangled cry escaped the soldier, and Lothíriel quickly spread the thick aloe paste over his arms before wrapping them in clean linen. "How do you feel?"  
"As though I'm sleeping on a bed of roses," the soldier gasped, though his face was screwed up in pain. Lothíriel raised her eyebrows at his attempt at humor, shaking her head.

"I can give you something for the pain in your arms, if it would be of aid," she offered. The soldier nodded quickly. "Six ounces of poppy seed tea, Corwin." Corwin nodded and went to fetch some from the novices. "Poppy seed will dull the pain. You'll probably be a bit drowsy, but it won't hurt as much."

"Thank you," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. Lothíriel nodded, helping him to sit up.

"Elanor, can you help—" she stumbled, realizing that she didn't know the soldier's name.

"My name is Auden," he informed her, and Lothíriel smiled.

"Elanor, could you help Auden with his tea?" she asked. The novice nodded, hurrying over to hold the mug for him. "Thank you." She moved on to the next bed, and the next bed, and the next, Corwin following right behind her as she went. There were enough Healers that the red-flagged beds were treated within half an hour, and fully a third the yellow-flagged wounded were out of harm's way.

"Corwin, I can handle these injuries on my own—would you take some of the green flags?" Lothíriel asked, pausing to pin back the strands of hair that had fallen loose from her braid. She fumbled the pin, and Corwin caught it, reaching forward to fix her hair. He quailed under her warning look, meekly passing her the pin instead. She offered him a grateful half-smile.

"I'll make a round of the ones we've treated, but I'll move on to the green flags as soon as I'm sure they're out of harm's way," Corwin replied. Lothíriel opened her mouth to speak, but he informed her preemptively, "I'll be sure to call you should they need more treatment." Her smile broadened, and she nodded approvingly before turning to the bed of a soldier with a jagged arrow-wound through his bicep. A crude bandage of dirtied cloth—torn from his tunic, more likely than not—covered it, stained with blood. She tsked her tongue at him, and the soldier forced a chuckle.

"In my defense, it was all I had," he offered. "Although I'm sure you've better to work with, Healer."

"It's just Alqua," she replied, carefully unwrapping the bandage. The wound underneath still bled sluggishly, but the arrow had punctured his arm cleanly—in one side and out the other. Inside, several muscles had been partially severed.

"Cordalion," he introduced himself, breathing in sharply as she poured salt water over the wound. The liquid hissed as it trickled through the arrow-hole, running down his arms in red-tinted rivulets. Lothíriel patted the wound dry, wiping away the excess blood the water had not washed off.

"Some of the aloe strips, please," she called. A novice was at her elbow almost instantly, and Lothíriel layered three of the aloe-soaked cloths directly over the wound before replacing his crude bandage with a clean layer of linen. Cordalion made as though to get up, and Lothíriel raised her eyebrows.

"You'll not be keeping a shield up with that arm anytime soon," she warned. Cordalion shrugged.

"Then I'll just have to move quicker," he replied grimly. "They've too much need of us. Every soldier makes a difference—even one who can't hold a shield. They'll need me when they ride out to retake Osgiliath." And with that, he was gone. Lothíriel shook her head, sparing a moment for a prayer before moving to the next bed.

She lost count of how many wounds she cleaned, salved, and bandaged, how many hands she held, brows she daubed with wet cloths, and prayers and words of comfort she whispered. In her wake, apprentices re-evaluated each soldier periodically as novices bustled by, alternately dispensing needed ingredients and cleaning blood, sweat, and vomit from the floor and beds. It was dark by the time they finished, and the second shift of Healers came to relieve them.

"Well done, Corwin," Lothíriel said quietly, clasping his shoulder. "You did good work today." Corwin smiled wearily, nodding in thanks.

"Have you someplace to go for supper?" asked Corwin as they made their way toward the stairs. Lothíriel frowned, considering the matter.

"I suppose I'll go to one of the eating-houses on the lower levels," she replied. Corwin shook his head.

"You've as much need of a bath as I, and a good hot meal to boot," he lectured sternly. "If you can stay awake for it, the steambaths are a level down and just a few blocks from my family's house. You can come for supper, and I'll even walk you back here to your luxurious cot." Lothíriel hesitated. "I'll pay for the steambath," offered Corwin by way of incentive.

"I'll need to fetch a clean dress, then," Lothíriel sighed, giving in. "Give me a moment." She made her way exhaustedly up the stairs, pulling the pile of dresses from under her cot. She had left most of her pack on the roof, including her bow and quiver, but her ribbons and dresses, as well as her spare cloak, lay under the bed. Pulling a spare pack from the supply closet, she slipped her dress and a fresh ribbon inside. On a whim, she pulled Erchirion's hair-pin from the small pouch at her waist and added it to her pack before removing the pouch and placing it under the bed as well.

Corwin was waiting at the bottom of the stairs for her, tapping his foot in mock impatience. He held her cloak over one arm, having already donned his own, and offered it to her with a bow. Lothíriel was too tired to laugh at his jests, and slipped it on in silence.

"You mentioned siblings?" he asked, offering his arm. Lothíriel accepted it out of a desire to remain standing and not collapse on their journey, not out of a desire to be in close contact with him.

"My elder brothers," explained Lothíriel. "Amrothos is closest to my age, and we were born on the same day. We call him my almost-twin. Erchirion is the next eldest, and Elphir my eldest brother. He is most protective of me. What of you?"

"One younger sister and a twin brother," Corwin replied. "Raina is sixteen, and is training to work in the House of Life." The House he named was staffed by midwives, and was where most Gondorian women came to give birth. "My twin is Gavin. He fights for the Tower Guard, and is betrothed to one of the apprentices here."

"And your parents—did they inspire you to become a Healer?" Lothíriel asked politely.

"Mama always wanted me to be a Healer," Corwin replied. "And Papa is a Healer himself, in the House of Comfort." This House was one which only the dying entered, those for whom the Healers could do nothing but ease their slow passage from life. "Other than archery and healing, have you any special interests?"

"I've been learning to fight with daggers," Lothíriel admitted. Corwin raised his eyebrows, impressed, and she blushed. "But as far as more maidenly pursuits go, I enjoy embroidery. All of the work on my dresses is my own, as is the work on my cloaks. And I like to sing, but only when my brothers aren't close enough to hear." She would normally not have confided so much of her life in any but her brothers or cousins, but exhaustion had dulled her wits and loosened her tongue. Catching herself, she stopped speaking abruptly, and they walked in silence until they reached the steamhouse. Corwin handed over two silver coins to the girl at the entrance, leading Lothíriel in.

"Have you ever been to a steamhouse before?" he asked. Lothíriel shook her head. "You'll enjoy this, then. They've robes, and small rooms to change. You can leave your pack in the cubby outside the steamroom, and we'll sit and rest there for a time. Then a quick stop in the cooling room, and back to the changing rooms and homeward we go." Lothíriel nodded, her tired mind scarcely remembering his words. Corwin ushered her toward a private room, where hung a white cotton robe outside the door. Lothíriel closed the door behind her, stripping down to her breastband and loincloth and slipping the robe on overtop. She hesitated, then removed them as well. A thin tie secured her robe, and she tucked her soiled dress into the very bottom of her pack before rejoining Corwin. Once again, he was ready before her, wordlessly taking her pack and carrying it to a wall of small shelves before offering his arm once more. Lothíriel accepted it, resigned, as he opened the door to the steamroom.

A wave of cleansing steam washed over Lothíriel as they entered. She inhaled, smelling lavender, chamomile, and the faintest hint of tea leaves as Corwin led her to a vacant wooden bench. Leaning back against the wall, she breathed deeply, enjoying the warmth that sank into her muscles and twined around her bones. Condensation dripped from her face, and she closed her eyes with contentment.

She woke to an amused Corwin shaking her shoulder, and stretched, yawning broadly. Corwin chuckled.

"Come on, princess," he grinned. "Time for a good meal and better company." Lothíriel shook her head as Corwin opened the door to the cooling room. There were no benches here, and the floor was covered by a woven rug. The temperature was noticeably cooler and crisper, and they stayed only a moment. The air here carried scents of lemon, orange, and just a touch of lily. Lothíriel stretched once more, refreshed, before following Corwin out the door. Her pack was as she had left it, and she stepped into one of the changing rooms to dress. She had chosen one of her nicer dresses, midnight-blue muslin with silver embroidery. Her ribbon was also silver, plaited into her long braid, and she clipped Erchirion's hair-pin just over her ear. This time, she finished before Corwin, and tapped her foot in mock impatience as he came out. He just chuckled, taking her pack and offering his arm. Lothíriel declined, but followed him out the door nonetheless.

"Mama!" he bellowed as they neared a neat, whitewashed stone house. "I've a guest for supper!"

"Corwin Healsson, you've no manners at all," scolded the small, plump woman who scurried out of the house at his call. "What will your guest think of that kind of ruckus?"

"That with three elder brothers, it's naught that's unusual," Lothíriel quipped, offering a curtsey to Corwin's mother. "Alqua Smythsdatter. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mistress."

"Corwin, are you courting her?" his mother demanded, eyes sparkling hopefully. Lothíriel turned her laugh into a cough at Corwin's horror-stricken look.

"Corwin is apprenticed to the same Master Healer as I was," Lothíriel explained, taking pity on him at last. "I'm a full Healer of my own now, and Corwin has kindly offered his services as my assistant during these battles." Corwin's mother nodded sagely, though her eyes betrayed disappointment.

"Well, Healer Smythsdatter, we're glad for the company," she replied kindly. "There's beef stew for supper tonight, and Raina just took the loaves out of the oven. Please, call me Melda."

"I'm just Alqua," Lothíriel insisted, and Melda nodded agreeably.

"Corwin, why don't you introduce our guest to your siblings while I set the table?" she suggested. Corwin acquiesced, beckoning Lothíriel through the wooden door. As her eyes adjusted to the warm glow of several well-placed lanterns and the roaring fire in the fireplace, she caught sight of a small, slender girl near the hearth, darning a pair of socks.

"Cor, you should just learn how to mend your own socks, as many holes as you put in them," she reprimanded him.

"Now why would I do that, Raina, when you fix them so well?" Corwin asked cheekily, swooping down to kiss her forehead. "Besides, I've a guest for you to meet. Raina, this is Alqua. She's a Healer at the House of Warriors."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Lothíriel said, smiling. Raina smiled back up at her, revealing bright blue eyes and an angelic grin.

"Likewise," she replied. "Although I must say, I feel sorry for you. You have to put up with this one far more than I do!" She indicated Corwin with a jerk of her head, and they shared a giggle.

"Brat," Corwin grumbled. "See if I bring anymore friends to meet you." That only made the two girls giggle harder.

"Corwin, you didn't mention we'd a lady in the house!" someone boomed. Lothíriel turned, seeing a man with Corwin's face but darker hair.

"You must be Gavin," she smiled.

"At your service," he replied, taking her hand and kissing it. He winked at her as he rose, and she blushed.

"Leave her be, you charmer," Corwin ordered him, smiling. "Besides, Oria would have your—" he glanced at Raina and changed the word he was about to use—"head if you flirt with a Healer she works with."

"Raina, why don't you show Alqua to the washroom before supper?" Melda called. Raina tossed Corwin's newly-mended socks at him before grabbing Lothíriel's hand and leading her to a small, tiled room just off the kitchen. A porcelain bowl filled with water and rose-scented soap sat next to a fluffy white towel, and the girls cleaned up in amiable silence. As soon as they left, Corwin and Gavin burst in, flinging the water at each other as they washed up. Raina and Lothíriel exchanged amused glances before joining Melda in the kitchen.

"Raina, fetch the milk from the coldbox, would you?" Melda asked. Raina opened a wooden panel on the floor, revealing a hollow in the flagstones that formed the base of the house. Raina drew out a pitcher of milk, filling the tin glasses around the table. "And tell your father that supper's ready; he fell asleep after he came home from the Houses."

Raina ducked around the doorframe, and Lothíriel heard faint footsteps on the stairs. Corwin and Gavin thundered into the kitchen, and Corwin flung himself onto one of the benches, sliding down to the very end. Gavin jumped clear over the table, taking a seat on the far side. Lothíriel laughed, shaking her head at their antics.

"Mis—Melda, is there anything I might do to help?" she offered. Melda tsked at her.

"You're our guest!" she refused. "Seat yourself at the table." Lothíriel obeyed, seating herself carefully next to Corwin. "And boys, have you nothing better to do than sit there? Bring these bowls over." Corwin and Gavin did their mother's bidding meekly, ferrying steaming bowls of stew from the pot Melda had placed on the hearth to stay warm. Raina swung back into the kitchen, stealing Corwin's seat next to Lothíriel.

"I was sitting there!" Corwin protested, placing a bowl of stew in front of Lothíriel.

"And now I'm sitting here," Raina retorted, sticking her tongue out at him. She smiled up at Gavin as he passed her a bowl. Melda bustled over, placing a loaf of sliced bread at the center of the table and seating herself at one end. As the boys placed the last bowl on the table, a man who could only be Corwin's father entered the kitchen, taking a seat at the head of the table. Corwin had his blue eyes and fair hair, though the elder man's was currently rumpled by sleep.

"Papa, this is Healer Alqua Smythsdatter, of the House of Warriors," Corwin said, glancing over at his father. Lothíriel bowed her head politely. "Alqua, my father, Healer Taladir Healsson of the House of Comfort."

"Well met, Healer Smythsdatter," Taladir replied, his warm voice kind. "Your mentor spoke most highly of you, as does my son. I'm glad to meet you at last."

"The honor is mine," Lothíriel replied, smiling. "Please, call me Alqua." Taladir nodded acquiescence, and Melda cleared her throat.

"Would anyone like some bread?" she offered. Eager hands reached for the still-steaming loaf, and they dug in.

Lothíriel had rarely attended such a loud meal, filled with the chatter of Corwin's family. Gavin and Corwin traded banter with Raina as Melda scolded her children affectionately. Talk turned inevitably, however, to the imminent battle, and it was with greatly dampened spirits that the table was cleared.

"Will you stay the night, then?" Melda asked, turning to Lothíriel. "I'm sure we might arrange a pallet by the hearth, or mayhap with Raina—"

"I thank you for your hospitality, and your offer is most generous, but I have a cot at the House of Warriors," Lothíriel replied, rising from the table. She curtseyed deeply to Corwin's mother, who smiled.

"You come by anytime you've need of a hot meal," Melda insisted. "I'll not hear of a Healer going hungry."

"I'll escort you home, Alqua," Corwin reminded her. He took her cloak from a hook by the hearth, tossing it to her easily. Lothíriel pulled up her hood as they left, turning to call one last farewell to Corwin's family.

The trip back to the House of Warriors was a quiet one. The streets were absent of their usual Guards, who had been called to the city wall for muster. The steady tramp of footsteps warned them of the approach of soldiers. Corwin drew Lothíriel out of their path as two columns marched down the street. Looking closely, Lothíriel saw that they wore the crest of Dol Amroth. She ducked behind Corwin as she recognized Erchirion at the head of the columns. She unconsciously brushed the hairpin above her ear, bowing her head as they passed.

Once the soldiers were well past them, Corwin and Lothíriel continued on their way. A few torches yet burned outside the House of Warriors, and lanterns hung in the windows of the occupied wards.

"Thank you," Lothíriel said quietly, not wanting to disturb any of the sleeping injured, as they entered the House through its thick wooden door. "I'll send a runner for you should any more soldiers arrive during the night." Corwin nodded agreement, bowing silently before trotting off. Somehow, Lothíriel found the energy to climb the four flights of stairs to her cot, sinking onto it gratefully. With a sigh of relief, she tugged off her boots, massaging her aching feet. There was a knock against the doorframe—there were no doors on most wards, and her cot had been prepared in an empty ward—and she turned to see a cart bearing a washbasin, hot stones, and willowbark tea enter the room, followed by the novice pushing it.

"Hello, Elanor," Lothíriel called, smiling gratefully. Elanor grinned up at her, revealing two missing front teeth. "Won't your mother and father wonder where you are, at this late hour?"

"I don't have a mother or a father," Elanor replied. "And Healer Karin at the orphanage said I could stay the night." Lothíriel's face softened, and she patted the cot next to her.

"Why don't you come have a seat, and I'll draw up a cot for you as well?" she offered. "And in the morning, we'll break our fast at one of the eating-houses." The younger girl nodded eagerly, bouncing onto Lothíriel's cot as Lothíriel closed the folding curtain between her cot and the next, drawing the spare cot over until the pallets were side by side. Elanor wrapped her hands in the pillowcase-cloth, carefully placing a hot stone under the blankets at the foot of each bed. Lothíriel smiled, passing her a cup of willowbark tea. She hid her amusement as Elanor sipped the tea, made a face, and put it down once more.

"It tastes bitter," Lothíriel agreed, though she continued to sip at her own cup. The tea, she knew, would ward off the headache she felt coming, and hopefully ease the pain in her legs. "Would you like me to leave the lantern on while you sleep, Elanor?"

The younger girl shook her head. "I'm a big girl," she explained stubbornly. "The dark isn't scary." Lothíriel bowed her head in acquiescence, opening the hatch on the lantern above her head and blowing out the wavering flame. Elanor curled up under her covers, burrowing her head into the pillow. Lothíriel whispered quiet prayers to Eru, Varda, and Estë before sliding under the covers, and was asleep within moments.

* * *

A/N: This was a bit of a filler chapter, but I really wanted to express my idea of what goes on at the Houses of Healing. I gave Corwin a bit more of a background, and I really liked the image I got of Elanor when I first wrote about her while Lothíriel was working—so I gave her some more text-time! We'll start getting into the good stuff soon, I promise. I'm debating whether or not to do one more chapter before the Battle of Pelennor Fields starts—what do y'all think?


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